


A Dreadful Fate to Suffer All the Same

by AlluringMary



Series: What We Owe to Each Other [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: This affair was born of a promise, a promise made to you over a cup of tea in the city of New York, a promise you could change your fortune and alongside it, Desmond's and the world's. Over half a year, though, this hadn't been the hardest part--it was looking back onto your past, now barred from you forever, and letting go.Takes place after What We Owe To Each Other, not necessary to read.
Relationships: Desmond Miles/Lucy Stillman (Implied), Desmond Miles/Reader
Series: What We Owe to Each Other [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003914
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Dreadful Fate to Suffer All the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Feels like a long time coming, those pages have been sitting since 2018 but I never could see how to finish it. Turns out I still don't!
> 
> For those who haven't read the prequel;
> 
> 1) Reader and Desmond met in NYC, started dating after very strange and very problematic first meeting
> 
> 2) Reader chose to surrender her academic accomplishments and Abstergo sponsorship to help rescue Desmond
> 
> 3) Relationship is genuine but rocky under the strained circumstances of, you know, the end of the world

_“It’s already started. I need to do this now. So go! Go!”_

_“No!” You vainly try to scream back, “Desmond, please no!” You make to get to him but William catches your arm in his fist, stopping you in your tracks. “You can’t!”_

_“Don’t cry, please.” Desmond takes another step forward, facing away from you and towards that cursed pedestal. William tightens his hold around your arm, tugs at it urgently. “I’m going to save the world.”_

_WIlliam's hand digs into your skin, you can tell a ring of bruises will sprout right where it is locked around your bicep. You reach for the frightening glow around him but you’re wrenched back by his father._

_“Desmond!”_

* * *

“You have to take it.” Rebecca finally says, frustration barely restrained, “We need to know.”

“I’ve always been late,” You softly retort, purposefully avoiding looking at the box resting on the table in front of you or at the woman towering above, “It’s normal.”

“You’ve been late for fourteen days now.”

At this time in December, snow falls in heavy sheets in the North of Ottawa. Frost clings to the glass windows of the hideout, the cabins are small and reassuring in their simplicity. You're thankful yet for the separate environment--the two cabins are separated by a large heap of snow, lost in the middle of nowhere--because you doubt you'd care much for this display if William was the one berating you.

“And I just told you it happens.”

Leaving Desmond behind was hard and it’s only the day after the fact that hot and searing rage had washed over you. Letting William drag you away from him was the biggest mistake of your life. However, no matter the pain and the nights you’d wake up crying and gasping to escape the nightmares, the world didn’t stop turning long enough for you to grieve. So here you were, on a weathered leather couch faced with a dreadful sight and a terrifying eventuality.

Rebecca cut into your thoughts once more, “Listen...” Where is she, you wonder, the unfeasibly bubbly person who'd rounded up on you on campus, spouting wild tales of cults and kidnappings? Had she lost a piece of herself in the Grand Temple too, did it rest alongside yours?

The frown already drawn on her face deepens, yet it's not directed at you but to an overly enthusiastic pink and white pregnancy test box claiming its results were over 99.99% accurate.

“I miss him too.” She finally yields, picking the box from the scratched low coffee table, “It’s fucked up. All of this--”

“Please.” You barely choke out, burying your head into your hands. You know she’s sincere, she sounds the part too, “Please, for the love of God, shut up.”

You get two days away from the damned box before William steps in. You’d never really clicked, especially not when Desmond would, in the beginning, not be able to talk about or to him without biting out each word. You had spent a lot of time together both watching over Des during his coma but you had yet to actually strike a friendship with his father.

Despite your very hasty escape the first time you'd met, William had taken a small liking to you back in New York when you showed yourself to be the polar opposite of what he’d imagined his son would affiliate with--What? Can you blame me? Who knew what he’d have become in ten years?--and you’d cultivated a sort of amicable agreement that you were civil solely because of the man whose body you’d left to decay within the walls of that cold heartless place.

* * *

_Desmond's immediately left after the unexpected punch, the grand reveal of his ancestor being a Templar. It's bizarre, you think while eyeing the gap below ready to swallow you whole, barely lit by the ambient faint blue glow. You've seen him bring a dozen men to their deaths in Italy and a single punch directed towards him had made you sick._

_You’re not willing to jump the great gap separating the team from the staircase he took off climbing up. William has made to walk towards the bright glowing barrier further into the Temple, Shaun and Rebecca mutely work, typing away on their keyboards._

_Just when you turn back towards the abyss, Rebecca says, “You should go talk to him,” her words come out a harsh whisper, trying her best not to speak too loudly so they won’t reverberate. “I’m sure he needs you right now.”_

_“I’m not risking that jump, Rebecca.”_

_It’s Shaun’s turn to play marriage counselor, “If you don’t, he’ll be an utter nightmare to work with. Go.”_

_You go. Your ankle protests in pain when you barely land on the other side. Truthfully, outside of the Animus, Desmond would make a poor assassin. His hiding is awful even if he protests that wasn't goal when you point it out. The spot he's selected to rest at is cold, but he hardly seems fazed._

_Des slumps further into the corner, spreading his thighs to allow you into his arms. “Hey,” He greets. You put a cold palm to his stinging cheek, welcoming the head he puts on your shoulder. you feel his stubble against the palm of your hand, his breath against the side of your neck. It’s become kind of a ritual, you holding him, him breathing in and out, talking things through softly into your skin._

_“I’m so… tired.” He laments, “So tired.”_

_“It’s alright.” You think of his forefathers, the Assassins--and Templar--it'd seem who ensured he would one day walk the Earth. Whatever they did, you knew he could do a thousandfold. And in the meantime, you’d be there. Those are the things you whisper back to him, welcoming his every responses._

_You feel his lips move through your shirt, his fingers dance underneath its hem. The quiet embrace is turned to a more physical type of embrace filled with barely-quiet moans and half-caught gasps, attempted reminders to keep as silent as possible – the sounds travel in this place. In the end, you really don’t mind._

* * *

You’re looking over the white scenery, the wind blowing softly against the snow. It’s cold, your fingers are getting numb.

You hear the hard sound of snow crunching under his boots before William appears to your left. You expect him to talk but he keeps silent, you both spend a dozen minutes watching the horizon before walking further away from the cabins and down a beaten path mostly covered by snow.

Still, he is the first to break the silence with, “I never thought I would be a father.” You keep walking, not responding, “Even when I got married to his mother and she told me she was expecting, I couldn’t see it happening. I would be there, my hand on her stomach and I couldn’t compute there was a life right under my palm. Then he grew up and... I was cold, distant, ruthless like a teacher should be, not like a father.”

“I know... I know.”

How many times had Desmond broken down in the dead of the night, vacillating between his ancestor’s silent yearning for his father’s approval and his own? How many times did you have to reassure him he hadn’t done the unthinkable and committed patricide himself?

_He wakes with a start, startling you awake. In doing so he pushes away from you, as if burnt by the touch of your skin. “Des?” You yawn, seeing only the outline of him in the darkness, “A re you alright?”_

_“I killed him.” He says in a voice not his own, adverting his gaze so he doesn’t look at you even in the dark of the night, “I killed him.”_

_“Desmond,” You’re losing sleep over these incidents when the bleeding effect affects his view of reality and he loses his entire sense of self.; “Your name is Desmond Miles, you haven’t killed Haytham Kenway. He isn’t your father.”_

_“My father,” He insists, “I killed him.”_

_“What is your name, Desmond?” You don’t try to touch him right away, it’s useless and potentially dangerous to touch him when he’s bleeding as Connor who despised being touched no matter the individual. “Desmond Miles, what is your name?”_

_And when he finally snaps out of it, stops mumbling in incomprehensible Mohawk in a voice deeper than his own, he launches himself at you, not waiting even a second before clutching at you, apologizing in between broken sobs--_

William, grave as can be, admits, “I wish I had told him I was sorry, more than once at the very least.”

Two hours later, after a hot shower and after pissing on the two plastic sticks at your disposal, you throw those on the bathroom counter, feeling mildly satisfied when you hear them clatter against each other in the sink and see them bounce off the chipped porcelain. You crawl onto the couch, eyes on your wristwatch, watching the digits change leisurely.

Your fingers dig into the bags under your eyes, you can feel him as if he’s standing over your shoulder, hear him in your head as if he's whispering in your ear. You’re tired, so tired. Yet even when your body yearns to rest, you’re scared of falling asleep, both dreams and nightmares are sure to bring Desmond forward.

In your dreams, he’s right there, over or beneath you, breathlessly calling out to you or groaning your name. His grip tightens on your skin, you can feel both your pleasures escalating. He’s here, he’s real, he feels so blissfully real.

And in your darkest nightmares, you’re back in this cold and dark temple. He shuffles towards you, eyes glowing gold, flaming arm raised, his skin purpling, something dark and menacing coursing under his flesh. He reaches you, he always does, hand scalding where it lands on you, the smell of burnt flesh thick in your nose--

You wake up with a start, bile clawing up your throat. You make it to the bathroom in time and cry with the force of the jolt, the pain and vile taste of it all when you empty your stomach into the toilet. Panting and disgusted, you flush and before you can wash your mouth, your gaze falls onto the two abandoned sticks in the sink.

* * *

_“Can I ask you something?” He asks when you shake yourself awake, both of you content in the warmth of the sleeping bag. You hum an agreement, sliding closer to him. His hands rove over your skin in gentle strokes under the covers, uncaring of the rustling of the fabric._

_“Do you ever wish we were back home? In New York, I mean.” The soft hues from the Temple’s lights cast a mellow light upon his face. So much so it’s impossible to resist planting a kiss on his jaw. He smiles, but the morose tint on his face and in his voice is obvious.; “Just the two of us, away? Alone?”_

_“No,” You respond after a moment, a small smirk drawing on your lips when his brow creases. “That would mean we’d never have eaten that glorious gelato in Rome.” You can tell he’s dying to correct your pronunciation but you don’t let him have the chance. “And there will be plenty of just the two of us after this, Des.”_

_“You’re right, there will.”_

_The others start stirring awake slowly and he’s taken away from you once more._

* * *

One late afternoon, Shaun bats away your feet from the couch and sits on the opposite side and if you were suspicious of him earlier, you know he's up to something when he hardly gripes when you drop your legs heavily into his lap.

“What do you want?”

“Always so confrontational,” he sniffs. “See, I always knew you were defensive but that is a whole other level.”

“Just spit it out, four-eyes.”

“We're planning to stay here a while,” Shaun says, surprising you with the calmness of his voice. “And I'd rather not have to endure spending one more night with Bill, he'll never admit it but his snores sounds like a circular saw.” He lightly taps your shin a few times with he flat of his palm. “I hereby request a roommate exchange.”

“Okay.” You reply, not particularly aching for a fight. “Is tomorrow good enough?”

“What is this?” He complains, “I'd expected a barb or two, instead you just roll over?”

“Sorry--so, what is it? Have you finally manned up enough and made moves on Rebecca or are you trying to run away from your silly little crush on William? He's a married man, you know.”

“That was lame, even for you.”

It really was. But you believe any of your previous delight in engaging Hastings in childish arguments has also been washed away. You remember the first pompous words the prick had first uttered in your general direction and the curl of his lip at the presence of civilian among assassins. From annoying little mite, to entertaining pest--you believed you'd come a long way.

But when you looked up at him to retort, you saw the same blank look on his face he had the night of Desmond's death. Shoulders slumped and glasses nearly slipped from his nose jostled during the ride out of Turin. Shaun had looked apathetic then and he looked the same once again.

You knew him too well to expect an emotional response like Rebecca's though.

“But I won't hold you responsible for your lack of charisma.” It's no surprise when he sweeps your legs off his lap, getting up to walk in front of you. “And, huh, I'd start packing if I were you.”

“Asshole.”

He laughs, while circling to the adjacent kitchen, “My lady.”

* * *

_It’s gotten common to wake up to an empty bedroll, Desmond already laying flat in the Animus or hiding away somewhere in the Temple’s labyrinth-like nooks and crevices seeking solitude and quiet before another interminable session back into the skin of his ancestor._

_It’s tiring, you understand, it takes a massive toll on him and sometimes he’d like not to be reminded of what he’s constantly forgetting and losing in the trenches of his mind and how far gone he truly is._

_And while yes, you’ve gotten used to wake up cold and alone, it also became natural to wake up to Desmond simply staring at you, eyes tinted with gold. He opens his mouth when he sees you’re awake and mixed fragments and snippets of Italian and English crash together as he addresses you. You don’t know what he’s saying when this happens, only that he’s more affectionate and tactile than usual and clearly out of his mind – you assume it’s Ezio shining through, the man could fall in love every two weeks with five different ladies and still bestow all kinds of intimacy and affection on every single one of them._

_On the rare occasion you’d wake up to him still asleep, still there and still himself, you’d have to restrain yourself from making a noise. It was truly bizarre that now after ten months into your mess of a relationship, you’re mortified at the idea of him waking up and not recognizing you and pushing you away._

_It wasn’t meant to be this way, you think, it was supposed to be just the two of you in New York, in your small studio facing the Heights and looking over the river, juggling school, love and his job all the while. You weren’t supposed to run for your life and prevent the end of the world, you were supposed to graduate, butt heads, confess your feelings at some point and lead a normal, simple life you’d be able to share with your friends and no one else – not even the small remnants of his mystery family._

_You just woke up, warm and snuggled against his front, he’s asleep and you carefully wiggle back to take his face in. Time passes slowly and after a few minutes, you watch as Desmond yawns, nose wrinkling and eyes watering at the edges. He rolls on his back to stretch his limbs but soon turns back to you, a smile on his face despite the heavy dark bags under his eyes._

_“Hi there.”_

_You crawl closer, your arm settling on his warm stomach and burying your nose under his chin. “Hey.”_

_Yes, your life was not supposed to be this way but as long as Desmond’s in it, who cares?_

* * *

Perhaps it is your unwillingness to properly function, hesitation over the fate of the cells accumulating inside of you but somehow, the universe decides it’s going to extend you a favor. This favor comes in the form of a short email teeming with spelling errors, once you unscramble the words, you’re left screaming at the top of your lungs, jostling Rebecca awake and pulling her out of bed to shove your computer screen in her face.

“This could be anyone.” She says in a sleep-rough and breathy voice, “Could even be Abstergo.” And yet, she reads it again and again and-- “God.”

“It has to be him,” You insist, thrusting your finger on the screen, unmindful of the flash of color when your nail hits the screen, “Look, right here. He always makes that mistake when he texts me. Always.”

“Go get the guys,” She says then, “I’m gonna get dressed.”

Your rush barefoot outside and knock on the boys’ door like a maniac, ignoring the lack of feeling in your toes and the darkness surrounding you. You don’t mind the cold, it’s more of an afterthought, so much that you’re frozen solid when the door finally opens. Shaun doesn’t exactly open the door as much as he inches it open to check as if a Templar has been trying bring the door down but it doesn’t matter when you crash in, pull him down to your height by his sleep shirt’s collar and manage out; “Desmond’s alive!”

“What?” William croaks out from where he stands behind the couch with an actual gun pointing down at the floor. You can see him relaxing his shoulders, they must really have thought a someone had tracked your cell down.

You’re dragged inside and ignore when the men complain about your lack of clothing and general recklessness. “He sent me an email,” You insist, finally letting go of Shaun when he swats at your hands, complaining about how cold they are against his skin, “He’s alive!”

The two men must share a look judging by how William’s eyes leave you for a second to look behind you where Shaun is, even a downplayed version of his sassy eyebrow from back in New York makes an appearance. The light switch is flicked on and the door closed to ward off the cold, “I know it’s been a tough few--”

“For fuck’s sake, man,” You cut the man off, “I’m telling you your fucking son is alive! We have to do something!”

“Keep it down.” William bites back, back to his usual glower, “We don’t want to attract attention which you surely did. That mail, you answered it?”

Before you can retort, Shaun bumps in, “Could I have a look at that email? William, even if it is Abstergo, it could be useful.” The Mentor serves you a stern look, turns around and disappears in the bathroom. “And you,” Shaun puts his hands on your shoulders, giving you a once over, “...are going back with me. Where are your shoes? You must be freezing, come on.”

Rebecca is already dressed when you three get inside the room, Shaun plucks the laptop from the low table and sits down on the couch to read it himself, William looking over his shoulder to have a look.

“It’s a trap,” William finally says, “They want to draw us out and they’re trying to get to you, that’s why you’re the one who received this email.”

“If they did, that would mean they'd have infiltrated the Assassin network and there's no known breach. This wasn’t sent to her by Abstergo and if it was, it’s poorly done.”

“Did you try to call him?”

“No?” Rebecca sounds mad judging by the bite behind her tone, “Like I’d make that rookie mistake. The second we get into contact with him they’ll know where we are. And if Desmond is up and running, he probably got rid of his sim card by now.”

Cue Shaun finally joining the conversation, “Even if it could be a trap, shouldn’t we at least do something?”

“Do you have any idea what they’d do to you? To her child when – and believe me they will if you keep this up – they get their hands on her?”

“Would you prefer we leave him stranded? We have to try, he could be alive!”

“Desmond is dead!” The father roars before, suddenly, remembering about the hour and your current state, drops his voice to say, “You all should already have gotten over this.”

God only knows you can’t.

* * *

_"You know what, I don't have to put with your bitching."_

_“Bitching? Really? You're not the one putting their sanity in the balance every day!"_

_You felt your face grow hot despite the biting cold of the wind. You huddled further into your coat. "Guess what, you're not the only one this whole thing affects!"_

_How many days had you poured over millions lines of code, tinkering away when even caffeine-addict Rebecca was on the verge of keeling over? You remembered clearly when Des had flat lined, at random times in the early hours of the day or in the middle of the afternoon. You'd felt your own heart stop in fear. And afterwards when any sliver of light would shine through, whenever Bill turned a kind, thankful look upon you, Shaun slapped a hand to your shoulder and dismissed you or Rebecca promised to take over for tonight--there Des was._

_Complaining, uncertain at every turn, looking as if he'd been gnawed right through to the bone._   
_"You're not the only one working hard." You answered, now half distracted by your own train of thought. You felt guilty, a little heavy inside. "You should know better than anyone else that we're all on a deadline here."_

_Snow squealed under his feet when he paced about. If he'd been angry before, now he looked downright mad. "You really don't get it, do you?" He asked softly after a while. "I don't know who I am half the time I wake up, I don't even remember my birthday most days... But no, you're right." Des forced out a choked, facsimile of a laugh. "I'm overreacting, you guys are doing the Lord's work."_

_"Des—"_

_"No." His tone kept a bitter edge. "Don't let me get in the way."_

_"Fine." You mimicked him well, "Be that way." Your boots sank into the snow while you advanced. "I'm sure Lucy would like whatever it is you call this."_

_You knew, you'd always known. Desmond was an easy person to figure out. He loved you, that much was obvious and you loved him. But there was little you could hide in a cramped hangar with five souls permanently residing in it. Furtive looks shared, not so discreet, flirting conversations echoed easily and moments between the two weren't hard to notice._

_He sounded surprised. "What are you saying?"_

_You approached the mouth of the Temple, unwilling to look back at him. "You know what I mean."_

_“No I don't." He snapped and you whirled around to pin him with a glare. "You don't actually think I cheated on you!"_

_You didn't, you trusted him too much and were too observant to let this massive of a breach of trust go unnoticed. Yet, your anger hungered for proper fuel to feed it, to fatten it and so you snarled, "Honestly? I don't think I know anymore."_

_His mouth hang open. "You can't be serious."_

_"I'll leave that for you to decide." And before another argument would call you back outside into the winter weather, you began sliding back down into the rock._

_Back inside the Temple, your footsteps echo loudly in the hall. Shaun not-so-discreetly slides a conspiring look to Rebecca, he must have set another bet on how long this fight will last this time around. Despite the space heater you cower close to, the cheek you flatten your palm to is cold to the touch. Your barbs were unnecessary, you know it, you feel it._

_Bill addresses you an appropriately fatherly disapproving glance when the tales of your new argument reaches him. He doesn't say anything, neither do the others but you can feel the disapprovement pouring out in droves from him. "Bill," You greet when he casually swings by your station. Your eyes only leave the screen to look down into the chasm left of your desk. You wonder how deep it goes and how much time it'd take him to find you if you decided to go hide. "Need something?"_

_"Just checking in."_

_The older assassin doesn't suit up for the weather outside before he disappears so you deduce he must be slinking somewhere, maybe sizing up the best opportunity to pick on his kid or berate you for your posture._

_“So...” Rebecca turns in her chair towards you. “...how's things?”_

_“Fine.” It's a losing battle trying to focus on the computer screen but you dare not be swayed. “You?”_

_“Going great.” There's the clear sound of a laugh being covered by a series of fake coughing. The noise suspiciously comes from Shaun's general direction. “Say, any idea when Des might pop back in..?”_

_“No.”_

_He comes back about an hour later, sweating despite being outside in the cold. Part of you wonders if he spent that time climbing into the dead trees and still green firs, running wild in the mounds of snow until his lungs gave out the same way a teenage Connor would._

_You don't speak to one another when he lays down into the Animus_

_But soon, once he got up and regained his bearings, you'd tear him away and gather him in your arms and smother him with the apology that burned where it rested on your tongue. You'd kiss his stubbly chin far too many times and say, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry for being such an ass. I know you never would do that, I'm sorry. I love you. Can I make it up to you?”_

_But by the time he woke up, Desmond knew where to find the key._

* * *

An hour goes by and ends with William back in the other cabin and Shaun and Rebecca arguing behind the closed door of the bathroom. The still open laptop shines light on your face, displaying the hastily written message and you read it again and again and again.

It has to be him. There is no way in Hell it couldn’t have been written by him. Or maybe the Universe isn’t shining a benevolent light upon you but instead encouraging you to make a mistake.

Maybe.

But there is one thing Desmond loved about you, that one thing that had brought you two together and caused you to end up here in the first place.

And thus, with the little grace and stealth you possessed, you swiped the van keys from Shaun's things. During the night, when Rebecca's soft snores resounded in the room, you snuck into your coat and into the van.

The engine wasn't quiet by any means and for a long minute, you stayed apprehensive, fearful of William's wrath were he to hear you leave. Yet when you turned the key into the ignition and sped off into the night, no hidden blade wielding deterrent got in your way.

Anxiousness gripped at you from every side but you reasoned it was only a four hour drive that stood between you and either your unfortunate demise or the love of your short life, in any case, it would prove to be a fitting end.

And bonus: it keeps your mind off the hundreds of cells multiplying and growing inside you.

Turin comes into view when the sun is barely peeking out from beyond the clouds, the strange northern lights caused by the aborted flare paint the night sky a dark green. There’s tiny water droplets clinging to the windshield, you can hear the residues of snow crunching under the tires. The silence wears you thin but you'd left your phone behind deliberately. Still, being cut off from the group after so long is disarming.

You drive by a beat down road sign reading ‘Turin’ and still dread does not fall upon you. The only thing on your brain is that idiot who you happen to carry in your heart.

You don’t take a right turn to get onto the main road – at this point it’d be suicide to show your face even in the small town, especially when Abstergo must be lurking at every corner – but pass the road and drive further to the woods encircling it. Time has not been kind to the roads around here and the elements have slowly started to take over what used to be a beaten path. You leave the van near it, careful not to make it too apparent or lose it in the foliage.  
There’s mud wherever snow has started to melt. It stains your boots and your pants in the worst way possible but you keep going, you’ve given up far too much to back down because of some mud.

You’ve never been in the Animus and you’re pretty damn sure you haven’t got an entire family worth of master assassins to learn from anyway so you do think what little stealth you have is pretty decent. The Grand Temple, hidden underneath the little cave, is surrounded by plain and white – why do they always have to be white? – cars and vans.

Yet there’s no one milling about and when you move a little closer to inspect them, the tires are slightly sunken in and the indents made by them in the ground are almost dry – perhaps Connor or hell, Desmond would have been able to tell how long those cares have been parked here. The hoods are cold to the touch and even if it is December, the motors don’t seem to have been running or even warm for some time. A quick look through the windows informs you that the keys were also left in the ignition

Those vehicles have been left alone for some time now, much too long if it was just about retrieving a body or exploring the vault. The maw of the Temple stares at you from under the moss and, deeply exhaling, you take a first step towards it. The ground is uneven, the rocks digging into the sole of your shoes, you ready yourself for the sharp incline by the entrance and pause.

You stare down at the dark precursor site, quietly bemoan your lack of a flashlight then take a deep breath and prepare to walk down. You're mindful of the slight heels of your boots, taking small steps into the darkness when your ankle twists from under you, and an unimaginable pain blooms across your palms where you catch yourself on the ground. You gather your knees under you to sit up and with horror, notice what exactly you stumbled upon.

With the aid of the faint blue glow further down, you find yourself looking into the empty blue eyes of the Abstergo agent whose corpse you just tripped over. It takes more than a minute for you to snatch your gaze away from the man whose head, as you just noticed, sports a rather large hole in the back from which brain matter is seeping out. The entire back of his hazmat suit is stained brown and what little is left of his hair is plastered to his skull with coagulated blood.

You get up on shaky legs and once you’ve made sure you’re not going to empty your stomach next to this grisly sight, you sweep the entrance of the Temple with your eyes. More men and women are in hazmat suits, all lying down in a pool of their own blood or slumped up against the computers and material you left behind five days ago. All lifeless and cold. The bodies have to be more or less fresh, you reason, the scent of decay has set in but it’s not overpowering. Even if the scent of blood still makes you sick.

And there, on the other end, in that cursed vault… The pedestal housing the glowing orb stands alone without anyone using it as their final resting place. You walk towards it, steering clear of the bodies, reassured by now that the place was empty.

You pass by the Animus and promptly divert your gaze when you catch a glimpse of a gaping mouth through a clear mask. The stairs were left alone, mostly, as you only need to side step some darkened specks of blood. Near the pedestal, there is only a gurney laying face down by the top of the stairs, brought here for the only corpse you can’t seem to find.

This place became a mausoleum and, perhaps, Desmond’s not in it.

That’s a comforting thought in itself, though the many dead commiserating around you are enough to throw you in a sense of unease. If Desmond’s not here then he’s either already in the hands of Abstergo or long gone--the lack of body is yet another incentive to get the hell out of here.

You’re ready to spin on your heel when a thud echoes deep from within the bowels of the site. You swivel in that direction, dead silent. You must stand here for a full ten seconds before you tentatively say, “...Des?”

Nothing, maybe it’s just another body that fell down from its perch somewhere. Maybe Desmond isn’t the cause of this massacre, maybe the newly freed Juno did this. Perhaps that email was a trap from the Templars and--

“Obviously.” Comes the response from behind you and nearly break your own neck how fast you whirl around. The man stands at the bottom of the stairs, you have no idea how you haven’t heard him beforehand. He’s looked worse, you think to yourself, he's went through sewers and worse still... and... he's here.

Desmond's here, sooty, dirty, bloody but alive and breathing. The phantom climbs up the stairs, dumbly smiling when you begin tearing up, “I see you got my email.”

You don’t react, just plain looking at him, standing and looking down at you when you’d been having constant nightmares about his death. Desmond advances it still and his skin doesn't glow with an otherwordly light, there's no stench of smoking flesh, only him.

“Babe?” He says as he reaches the top of the stairs, fully standing in front of you before letting out a combination of a grunt and a small pained noise when you throw your arms around him and crush him against your chest.

“I can’t believe you,” You wail and sob, “I thought you were dead! Again!” Whiel you berate and cry, you lay kisses upon kisses on his face, from his lips and cheeks to his nose. He can't keep up the pace and only holds you tighter.

“I would say I’m sorry but…” You hush him up with a soft kiss to his lips, he starts again, “...it’s not like I wanted this to happen.” He defends but how does this matter. Desmond is alive, his skin warm to the touch with an almost healthy glow, “I thought it was over. But I guess Minerva protected me... or maybe Juno only took a small sacrifice.”

You finally notice the empty sweater’s sleeve hanging limply from his shoulder and the distinct lack of a second arm around your shoulders. His arm is nowhere to be seen, simply detached, missing from his body. You slowly turn on yourself to look for the missing limb, your eyes settling on a lump of carbonized flesh beyond the pedestal. It rests limply, ready to fall into the bowels of the Temple, “Des...”

“Hey c’mon,” He tries to reassure as you stare in shock, shaking like a leaf, “Don’t be like that, I lost like thirteen pounds.” Suddenly, the strain of his missing limb seems to surface and Desmond, alive but unwell hisses, “I couldn’t get out by myself, not with this stump.”

“But you killed all of them?” You gesture to all the death around you, the rigid men and women morbidly decorating the place, “How did you manage that?”

“You can’t see much in those suits, they were almost blind.” Desmond answers, “And almost none of them had guns, it was easy from there.”

Still reeling from this revelation and macabre setting, you find appropriate to point out, “Thank God you’re left-handed.”

That gets a laugh out of him but he urges, “Let’s go now, Abstergo will be on our asses soon enough. I have no idea why they aren’t here already.”

Bringing Des up towards the entrance is literally an up-hill battle, he’s heavy, in pain and can’t get a proper grip to hoist himself up when his missing arm comes to life. It feels like it’s still there, it has a weight, feeling and it’s painful. After the fact, there’s mud on your jeans, under your fingernails, in your hair, under your clothes, on your skin and even in your nose and ears, you think.

Desmond is much into the same state as you, albeit paler and shakier. You can’t even begin to think how he spent nearly five days days in constant pain because of his arm with the little food and water you’d left behind in your haste to get away and how he still had enough strength to go against an entire squadron of Abstergo agents.

You get in the van, he insists on sitting in front and you help him buckle up, almost like a little baby, “I did not survive Juno for you to compare me to a baby,” He complains, falsely scandalized.

You turn the key in the ignition and turn towards the road, “Complain later, we need to find a hospital.”

“No, we don’t.” He says, “The wound is cauterized. The pain is really just nerves.”

“Really?” You’re doubtful, hell you look at him like he’s also lost his mind, “I don’t think either of us are qualified enough to make that decision. It could be dangerous.”

“Not sure you noticed but we can’t go anyway.” He ground out, leaning back in his seat, “They have wanted posters of me all over the fucking planet.”

“What are we going to do, then? We need to go somewhere.”

Neither of you speak for a moment, the sounds of the forest fill into the van, you focus on his breathing. It stutters at time, and once invisible lines now dig deep into the skin of his face. The motor is silent and the road strangely smooth.

“I wish we could go back home.” His gaze is lost somewhere in the passing trees, blindly he reaches for your hand, running circles against your skin with his thumb rubbing off stray specks of dried mud. “I want to go back to go back there, ride all the way to Jersey.... I miss chasing your hamster down, I miss our friends, I miss that weird pizzeria we always went to. I…” You weave your fingers together, feeling yourself tear up the more suppliant his tone became. “I want to go back home, I want to spend an entire night just the two of us, under the covers and without anyone to disturb us... I want to go back and forget this all ever fucking happened.” His voice was cut by a deep, shaking exhale. When he spoke again, his tone was filled with sorrow. “It was perfect before, everything felt perfect. I miss it… I want our life back.”

He sighs, looking down at your joined hands. “They took that away from us and now it’s all gone.”

Tears have already welled up in your eyes, the road looks like a blotched mess of colors. This felt like a slap to the face, no matter how true it all was – you had resented Templars and Assassins alike for ripping your life away from you. To hell with their convictions, their goals! You’d uprooted your entire lives to save this fucking Earth, Desmond had had his mind twisted, broken and mended all for this; there was nothing to go back to.

What are you supposed to say? Fuel the bitterness inside of him with your own? You would never forgive yourself.

This affair was born of a promise, a promise made to you over a cup of tea in the city of New York, a promise you could change your fortune and alongside it, Desmond's and the world's. Over half a year, though, this hadn't been the hardest part--it was looking back onto your past, now barred from you forever, and letting go.

“We have to let go,” You said, “As much as we wish we could go back, we can't.”

His hand tightens around yours, and when you look away from the road, he has the most genuine smile you've seen on his face in weeks. “Our easier days, they're far behind us now. I'm still sorry to have brought you into this. It feels selfish... but I'm happy you're here with me.”

“I'm sorry too.” You say, “I didn't mean it, what I said about you, and about Lucy. I know you'd never do that to me. I was mad, you didn't deserve that.”

He sighs through his nose. “Me too. You sacrificed a lot to make sure I was safe and I never took that into account, I took a lot for granted. I'm sorry.”

A quiet moment passes between the two of you, minutes you spend with the warmth of his hand in yours.

“Well... what do you want to do?” The early morning sky was still tainted green and seas away, the fires across Australia and Europe still raged. “How are you feeling?”

“Right now.... I want to sleep, for a thousand years if I can.”

You frowned, slowly pressing down on the brakes. “You should have told me, I'll help you to the back.”

“No. No.” Desmond squeezed your hand in his, you peeked down at your joined hands and followed the dark ink of his tattoo in the half-light. “I can wait, I want to stay here for now, with you.” He grinned, “It's over, for now at least, it's over.”

“You saved the world.” You see his head loll to the right, where he examines his lost arm. “You've amply deserved your beauty sleep.”

Desmond hums, and his hold on your hand turns into a gentler clasp. You spy from the corner of your eye as he bows his head and leans down to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand. After countless times of being the victim of many Ezio bleeds where Desmond turned into quite the smooth operator, you believed you were far above blushing like a virgin. But for some reason, you can't prevent the blood from flowing into your cheeks at the look Desmond is giving you.

“You know I love you, right?”

You saw his face, tanner and rid of the lines created born from months of stress, smiling and reigning supreme over your half collapsed sandcastle. You can't help but laugh, before throwing a look at the empty stretch of road ahead.

“You better!”

You have to dislodge his hand to shift gears and after driving for a few minutes, you break the comfortable silence. You feel your since-forgotten anxiety coil inside your abdomen. Yet somehow, it's eased.

“Hey, Des?”

“Hmm?”

“Say... you've been a parent of few times in the Animus... but how do _you_ feel about children?”


End file.
